


the poetry of movements

by thorsvarme



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Post-Movie, Yoga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorsvarme/pseuds/thorsvarme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Arthur does yoga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur does yoga. Eames discovers this fascinating little tidbit of information one morning after a particularly sleepless night culminates in Eames deciding to go to work instead of stare at the ceiling of his hotel room for three more hours.

He walks into the empty studio apartment that is the base of operations for their current job and is greeted by the sight of Arthur on a yoga mat, his lithe body a mess of tangled limbs.

“Care to join me?” Even though Arthur’s face is pressed against his knee, he’s aware of Eames’s presence immediately. His voice isn’t even the least bit strained, he sounds exactly the same as he does sitting at his desk, asking Eames if he’d like to go for a coffee run together.

“I don’t think I could if I wanted to, darling. I’m not flexible in the slightest,” Eames leans against Arthur’s desk (Arthur is really the only one who needs a desk) and watches as he gracefully moves into another pose.

“That’s the whole point, Eames, yoga improves your flexibility.”

“But now you’ve gone and discouraged me. I could never pull off those tight little trousers as well as you do.”

“That’s one of the biggest lies you’ve ever told.”

“I’m flattered,” Eames grins at Arthur, who is currently peering up at him from between his thighs.

“You’re up early,” Arthur remarks, his voice is only ever so slightly breathless.

Eames marvels at how little embarrassment Arthur is displaying here. The pointman seems perfectly content to hold a conversation from in between his firmly toned thighs.

Eames supposes it’s that uniquely Arthurian confidence that whatever Arthur is doing, he’s doing it well.

“S’been a while since I’ve taken Somnacin,” there’s no use lying to Arthur, he would just see the signs of fatigue on Eames’s face and figure it out on his own.

It’s that uniquely Eamesian confidence that no one can keep anything hidden from Arthur.

“This helps, you know. It’s how I started.”

“If I wanted to bend myself into uncomfortable positions before collapsing into bed I wouldn’t call it yoga,” Eames says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as Arthur moves into a resting pose.

It’s fascinating how Arthur’s face can be planted into the ground, yet his body still finds a way to convey just how unamused he is.

“I’ll show you my routine, if you like,” Arthur offers as he sits up, ignoring Eames’s innuendo.

Eames watches Arthur for a moment. Something shifted between them after the Fischer job, Eames notices. It’s a slight, and perhaps insignificant, shift, but there is something different. Maybe sharing a near-death experience is what caused it.

He doesn’t believe in cliches, but they stared down the light at the end of the tunnel then turned and walked away. That’s not an insignificant experience to share. Most people would call it life-changing. It isn’t a stretch to believe it could have changed his and Arthur’s relationship.

“Cheers. You know where I’m staying?”

“You can come to me.”

+++

It takes Arthur less than a minute to answer the door of his hotel room. Eames feels underdressed, he’s in old, threadbare sweats, an army t-shirt, and brand new sneakers he’d picked up on his way over.

“You were never in the army,” is the first thing Arthur says as he stands aside to let Eames through.

“Patriotism, innit? Support the troops and all that rubbish."

“You don’t like England either,” Arthur points out drily. Arthur knows this because Eames refuses to take any job that involves being in England for any period of time.

“It’s a terrible country,” Eames agrees, “doesn’t change the fact that I’m English.”

“I brought you a mat,” Arthur gestures to where he’s pushed the sofa in his suite aside and laid down two mats, side by side.

Eames spends the next hour floundering through all the different positions Arthur shows him. Arthur made it look so easy, but Arthur makes everything look easy. Eames should have known this would be absolute hell. He hadn’t been lying when he said his flexibility was non-existent, and he's realizing now that his core strength is even worse.

(He even got stuck at one point.

“Eames what were you even _doing_. You were just supposed to be in down dog.”

Arthur untangled Eames, carefully pulling his leg out from behind Eames’s neck and laying him out on the ground.

Arthur was always careful. Alway capable and careful and _safe_.)

Eames is lying on the mat by the end of it. Every muscle in his body is sore, his abs hurt with every breath he takes, and he keeps thinking of Arthur’s soothing hands on him, easing him into the positions. He keeps thinking of Arthur’s deep voice, quietly murmuring the names of each pose into his ear.

“Eames. Drink your tea,” Arthur calls over to him from the kitchen.

Arthur has made them an herbal tea which Eames is petulantly refusing to drink.

“No.”

“Do it for Queen and Country.”

“I hate England. Tea isn’t even English.”

“Stop complaining, it’s getting cold.” Arthur ducks down behind the open fridge door.

Eames is already drifting off, right there on the ground with his face against the mat and his mug of tea steaming in front of his eyes. He watches the tendrils of heat rising from the mug as his eyelids get heavier and heavier.

“Should I make up the sofa bed?”

Eames lifts his head and drops his chin on the ground. Arthur is looking at him from over the fridge door. He’s smiling, his dimples are showing, and his eyes are impossibly, incredibly warm.

“Mmph,” is all Eames can answer before dropping his head back down onto the mat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wheee chapter 2 here we go

Eames wakes a few hours after Arthur drags him over to the bed. He realizes that Arthur took the sofa bed for himself, giving Eames the more comfortable option. 

He stares at the ceiling and thinks about Arthur. He thinks about every job they’ve worked together. He thinks about waking up from test runs to Arthur’s face hovering over him, easing the IV out of his arm. He thinks about coffee runs with Arthur and late nights with Arthur and celebratory drinks with Arthur. 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Arthur, but he eventually hears movement. Not long afterward Arthur quietly pads into the room. He heads for the balcony, opening the door as quietly as only Arthur can. 

The cool night air slips into the room and Eames shivers. Seconds later the smell of a cigarette wafts through. Eames rolls out of bed. His muscles are sore and stiff, but he feels good. It’s been a long time since Eames did exercise just for the sake of doing it and he takes a moment to savor the feeling of stretching out the stiffness. 

“Cigarettes?” Eames asks. Arthur doesn’t jump, doesn’t even turn.

“They help me relax sometimes.” Arthur’s lips form a small, plush O as he blows out a line of smoke.

“I thought yoga helped you sleep.” 

“It helps me sleep _well_. I can usually get back to sleep after I wake up.” 

“How?” 

“Meditating.” 

Eames snorts.

“I’m serious.” 

“Show me,” Eames says impulsively.

Arthur gives Eames a curious look before putting out the cigarette in an ashtray balanced precariously on the balcony railing and heads back inside. Eames follows and watches Arthur settle on the other side of the bed, resting his hands on his stomach. 

“Lie down.” 

Eames shivers again, and tells himself it’s just the night air. 

“Now clear your mind. It’s easier to focus on something, like your breathing or a color or an image. Anything.” 

Eames focuses on Arthur’s breathing. 

“Just breathe, let your whole body relax, don’t let your mind wander.” 

Eames breathes, he feels his body loosening and his mind goes pleasantly blank. When he falls asleep again, his breathing is still in sync with Arthur’s. 

+++

The sun is just starting to come up when Eames wakes up again. He hasn’t gotten this much sleep since he started the job, and he feels well rested for the first time in what feels like forever. 

Arthur is still in bed next to him, he’s rolled over onto his stomach and buried his head underneath the pillow. Eames gets the urge to reach out and trace the lines of Arthur’s muscled back, barely visible through the shirt he’s wearing. 

Eames rummages through the kitchen. It’s fully stocked, he discovers. Arthur’s bought fruits and vegetables and microwavable rice. He’s even brought appliances with him, some futuristic looking blender and an equally hi-tech looking juicer. 

Eames spends a few moments trying to figure out Arthur’s contraptions, then gives up and settles for making a fresh pot of coffee and scrambled eggs instead. 

“Eames?” 

Eames hums in response. He doesn’t jump, doesn’t even turn. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Making you breakfast, darling.” 

“Couldn’t figure out the blender?” Arthur says, sounding amused. 

Eames turns then. Arthur looks delightfully sleep mussed, his ordinarily slicked back hair has come loose, and there’s a crease mark on his right cheek. Arthur’s eyes are sleepy, soft, and warm. 

He turns back to the frying pan and ignores the way all the breath has rushed out of his lungs. 

“Wouldn’t know what to put in it if I could.” 

“Fruits and vegetables.” 

“Disgusting.” 

“I’m going to take a shower.” 

+++

Arthur makes them both smoothies to take to work. Eames watches in revulsion as Arthur tosses kale and apples and peaches into his little blender, entirely and utterly disgusted by the process. But Arthur makes Eames drink it, and it’s really not so bad, but Eames will never admit that. 

“Do you two have smoothies?” Ariadne asks the moment they step into the office. They’re a little late, maybe. Neither one of them saw any reason to rush that morning. “And why are you coming in together? What’s going on?” 

Arthur gives her a look. 

“It’s just weird,” Ariadne mutters. 

“Well, we did sleep together. In a manner of speaking,” Eames says wrily, smirking over his not so repulsive smoothie and not buying Ariadne’s bullshit for a second. 

“Eames.” Arthur rolls his eyes, but says nothing else. 

“What does that _mean_?” Ariadne demands. 

“Whatever you’d like it to,” Eames answers cryptically but he’s looking at Arthur when he says it. 

Arthur doesn’t look up from his desk, but he starts shuffling papers around for no discernible reason and his ears go delightfully red at the tips.


	3. Chapter 3

“Are we yogis now, darling?” Eames asks over dinner. Their plates are loaded with grilled chicken and vegetables and Eames has brown rice which Arthur only made after unbelievable amounts of whining over the lack of carbs. Arthur had insisted the first step to a good night’s sleep was a good healthy meal and Eames would never turn down an offer like that.

“What.” 

“People who do yoga are called yogis,” Eames says over a forkful of rice and chicken. He’s been carefully skirting around the vegetables and hoping Arthur won’t notice. “I googled it,” Eames adds in response to Arthur’s probing look. 

“Who taught you how to use Google?” Arthur asks fondly. 

“I am a grown man, fully capable of working out how to-” 

“Eames.” 

“Ariadne,” Eames says with a heavy sigh, as if admitting a great defeat. He glares at Arthur as the other man ducks his head and grins at his plate. “Did you know there’s a fantastic website that looks up nearby restaurants for you? And you can share your thoughts on the food for the whole world to see.” 

“Oh my god, Eames are you a yelper?” Arthur nearly chokes in surprise. 

“Well don’t look so shocked,” Eames puts on an air of mock offense and sniffs. “I have an _exquisite_ palette. The entire internet loves my reviews.” 

Arthur gives him a skeptical look. 

“Look,” Eames pulls out his phone and opens up his yelp app. It’s the only app he ever uses (or knows how to use). He scrolls to one of his first reviews and waves the phone in Arthur’s face.   
Arthur rolls his eyes and takes the phone from him, snatching up his reading glasses from where they hung off the collar of his shirt. 

“Oh, I told you to eat here,” Arthur says, sounding pleased. “So tell me,” Arthur slides Eames’s phone back towards him, “what does your palette think about my cooking?” 

“Hmm” Eames draws out the syllable and pretends to be deep in thought as he chews and swallows. “It’s communicating to me that your food is delicious.” 

Arthur beams, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His dimples are showing and Eames wants to reach across the table and dip his thumb into the gentle crease of them. 

“If only you weren’t so hung up on being _healthy_ ,” Eames sighs wistfully. 

“Asshole,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “Eat your vegetables.”

+++

He sleeps in Arthur’s hotel room again that night. After yoga he stays awake long enough to convince Arthur to let him take the sofa bed before collapsing in a heap of exhaustion.

When he wakes that night he tries to listen for Arthur’s breathing, but there is only silence around him. The silence is loud, deafening, unbearably heavy. He lays there for what feels like hours, incapable of falling asleep, until he drags himself out of bed and peers into the bedroom. 

Moonlight filters in through the large glass doors that lead out to the balcony. Arthur hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains and the soft, blue light illuminates the bed. Arthur’s wrapped himself in a cocoon, the top of his head only barely visible above the twisted, tangled mess of blankets. Eames lets himself in and breathes softly, quietly, as he eases himself onto the bed. It dips under his weight and he cringes as the bed springs creak, cutting through the quiet.

“Eames?” Arthur mumbles, his voice completely sleep wrecked. He pokes his head out from inside his nest and squints across at Eames. 

“I just- I need help with the- the meditating,” Eames says in a hoarse, hushed whisper, unwilling to look at Arthur.

“Sure,” Arthur whispers after a long pause. 

Eames lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

+++

“How do you manage to find the _best_ hotels,” Eames says, grinning delightedly up at Arthur from the water. He’d conned his way into the pool that morning, after he’d woken up and decided a morning swim was exactly what he needed to stretch out the soreness of his muscles.

“Are you planning on ever getting ready for work today, Mr. Eames?” Arthur squats down near the edge of the pool. He’s fully dressed in a striped shirt and a beautifully patterned burgundy tie tucked into a dark sweater. His dark hair slicked back and his sleeves are rolled up, probably uncomfortable in the humid indoor pool. He’s sipping on another one of his atrocious green smoothies and smirking down at Eames and Eames can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. 

“Nope. I’m just going to float here til I shrivel up like a raisin,” Eames says blissfully, leaning back and kicking away from the edge of the pool. 

Eames does a few laps under Arthur’s gaze, just to show off his form, but by the time he finishes his last one Arthur is already gone. 

Eames does go to work eventually, after trying out the jacuzzi and the steam room. His hair is still dripping wet when he walks in and Arthur only glances up briefly to nod at Eames before going back to his files. 

He finds a smoothie and a room key for Arthur’s hotel waiting on his desk. He looks up to find Arthur watching him apprehensively from his desk. 

“Cheers,” Eames says with a grin, raising his glass and tipping it Arthur’s direction. Arthur shakes his head and returns to his work, a smile on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while. As always, con-crit always welcome and desperately needed.


End file.
